


portrait

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Zeke is the epitome of a proud husband what a guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: He has a painting of her, right on his desk, and it is sometimes his only company and comfort.





	portrait

**Author's Note:**

> this came from me making one of those ["do it for her" boards with Tatiana](http://tatizekes.tumblr.com/post/169519112307/in-this-house-we-love-and-appreciate-tatiana-fire), and then in the discord server i joked about Zeke having it framed on his desk, and then we discussed him actually commissioning a portrait of her for his desk, and then i made it angsty

“Come ooooon,” Tatiana complains. “Isn’t this something that only stuffy rich people do?”

Zeke finishes brushing her hair and sets the brush off to the side. She’s already dressed perfectly in her nicest clothes, makeup perfectly applied. When he starts to braid her hair, she comments, “I think I would like to wear it down, thank you,” but still looks annoyed as she glares into the mirror. She’s pouting, but not too seriously.

“It is not something that only stuffy rich people do,” Zeke assures. “Come now, Tatiana. It’s only a small painting. Not something on a massive canvas. It won’t take more than an hour.”

Tatiana turns in her seat and gives him a pointed glare. “Why would anyone want to paint me, though?”

“Because I’m paying them,” he says. “Behave a little, please. This is important to me.”

“And why do _you_ want me painted?” she asks.

Zeke hums as she stands, and he brushes a strand of hair out of her face. She looks like a vision in her gray gown, her lips painted a delicate coral. She’s been complaining about the painting since he suggested it to her a few days ago, and he knows that it’s not because she doesn’t really want to, but because she’s self-conscious about being stared at and drawn.

“Because I love you,” he replies. “And I would delight in nothing more than a painting to keep with me.”

Tatiana looks to the ground, a smattering of a blush on her face. “Oh, fine, fine! You promise it won’t take more than an hour? I don’t like sitting still for very long.”

“Not more than an hour, my sweet,” he promises. “Come out now, the painter should be waiting.”

She touches her hair a little anxiously, gives him one more questioning look, but follows him out to the living room. The painter is set up there, waiting quietly, and she has Tatiana sit in a chair, pose with her back straight, and moves her head this way and that before settling on a position.

“This is more trouble than it’s worth,” Tatiana tells Zeke again.

He crosses his arms and stands behind the painter, tilting his head as he observes the sketch she is starting. “Hush, Tatiana, don’t be a child.”

She scowls, then shuts her mouth when the painter snaps, “No frowning like that, please!”

The painter tells him after five minutes that he’s a “distraction,” and essentially kicks him out of his own house. He’s not all too happy about it, but he does some chores while he’s outside: Chops wood, checks Tatiana’s flowers for weeds, makes sure his horse is happy grazing in the stretch of grass at the side of the house, and a few other things. When an hour, as he promised Tatiana, has passed, he lets himself back in and finds the painter packing her things.

“Finally,” Tatiana huffs when he comes in. “That was such a long time!”

“Only an hour,” the painter tells her.

“An hour is forever when you’re just sitting and being quiet,” Tatiana shoots back.

“Thank you for your time, regardless,” he tells the painter. “Do you mind if I see the painting?”

She hefts her bag over her shoulder and picks up her easel. “I left it over on the counter to dry a little more. It’s mostly set, but perhaps don’t touch it for another couple of hours, just to make sure you don’t ruin it.”

“Thank you,” Zeke says again, and he shows her to the door. Tatiana is still pouting, fists on her hips, when he turns back around.

“That was boring,” she says. “And how much did that cost anyway?”

He chews the inside of his cheek before admitting, “Three gold marks.”

Tatiana recoils. “You shouldn’t spend that much on a portrait of me! We could’ve bought something nice with that money.”

He moves to the counter where the portrait is propped up. It’s exquisitely done, well worth the money. He thinks that it captures the softness of her lips nicely, the light in her eyes, the shine of her hair. It doesn’t make her look stuffy or bored. There’s a curve to her lips, a smile of just the right amount, and a tilt to her head that makes her look curious and and gives the painting a more human touch. The painter hasn’t made her eyes to look cold or stiff; they shine with warmth and kindness.

“This is something nice,” he says.

* * *

Zeke frames the portrait and takes it to work with him, making it an embellishment for his desk as he had intended from the start. He makes a space for it amid the little knick-knacks he has, all gifts from Tatiana or Rudolf, and faces it towards him. It makes the boredom of paperwork a little more bearable when he gets to look up and see her face.

“You went and spent actual money on a stupid painting of that little girl?” Jerome sneers when he comes into his office.

Zeke dips his quill into an inkwell and keeps writing. “Yes. Why should I not have?”

“It’s just a waste,” he replies, and when he picks up the frame, Zeke has to fight the urge to grab his wrist and take the painting back. “Hmm. She’s passable. A little chubby for my tastes.”

He grips his quill tighter and looks up, taking a deep breath. “Well, sir, nobody asked you what your tastes were, now did they?”

Jerome looks over the frame and frowns at him. “Watch that smart mouth, Ezekiel,” he tells him, and then he puts the frame back down, scowling, and leaves the room.

“Imbecile,” Zeke mumbles to himself, and then he rights the frame and goes back to work.

Fortunately, other people aren’t half so crass, and they say perfectly kind things if their attention is drawn to the painting. “That wasn’t on your desk before,” they always say. “What is it?”

And, of course, he allows them to look. Why shouldn’t he? He likes to show off Tatiana. It makes him proud when he hands the frame over to someone who is curious and they comment on how lovely she is. He has to fight a pleased smile from coming over his face.

“This is your lover that you’re always talking about?” someone says as they observe the painting. “I’ve always wondered what she looks like!”

Zeke frowns and holds out his hand to take the painting back. “I don’t _always_ talk about her.”

They smile and say, “Please, whenever there’s any opportunity for small talk, she’s all you can speak of.”

“Untrue,” he shoots back, but he wonders if they’re actually really that wrong. It’s not like he has any particularly strong interests outside of Tatiana.

“In any case, she’s lovely. I think you’re very lucky,” they tell him as he sets the frame back on his desk.

Zeke couldn’t agree more.

* * *

The portrait feels like Zeke’s only company in the middle of the winter, and he wishes dearly that that wasn’t so.

He doesn’t go home. He barely leaves his office for fear of what atrocities and crimes will await him just outside his door. He scarcely eats, he forgets to shave much of the time, and his hair gets shaggy without a lover to neatly trim it. He has the portrait, the likeness of Tatiana’s face, but not her gentle hands or her warm lips. He resents it, but he clings to it, especially in moments like these.

The back of Jerome’s hand lashes over his cheek, but Zeke barely winces. He’s got a high tolerance to pain, and he’s grown accustomed to the abuse over the past month. It’s constant, ruthless, and he has the bruises on his jaw to show it. So, he doesn’t flinch, but he winces and shakes his head a little to try and dislodge the burst of pain.

“Insolence,” Jerome spits. A second of silence passes, and then Jerome repeats himself, grabbing the collar of Zeke’s uniform and shaking him. “You’re good for nothing!”

“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” he replies evenly, yet in his mind, he’s slicing through Jerome like a hot knife through butter. It’s therapeutic.

“I’ll ask again,” Jerome says as he walks around him in a circle, reminiscent of a vulture. “What, pray tell, did you do with those extra food reserves I had sent here?”

“Extra food reserves” is what Jerome says, but what he means is something more along the lines of “personal stock.” That food wouldn’t have gone on anyone’s plate but his own, even though they were shipped from the imperial capital under the pretenses of feeding the entire military base. Even then, the base needs no more food; they all eat comfortably, except for Jerome, who eats in excess. The ones who really could use that food are the civilians around them, whose rations are plucked from their hands by Jerome himself, so that he may eat while they starve.

The food wouldn’t have gone to anyone but Jerome, but Ezekiel had other plans for it, and now it’s scattered around the local area to the people who need it most. All it had taken was a very early morning ride out to intercept the soldier transporting it, a few gold marks pressed into the man’s palm, and a promise to not let anyone know that it was General Ezekiel who had the food sent elsewhere. To not let anyone know it was him was exceedingly important, he had emphasized, and he hopes that the extra five silvers he threw in will keep the man’s mouth shut.

“Raided by bandits, that’s what you are to say,” he’d told the man. “A very innocent young woman will suffer if you tell anyone that it was I who ordered this.”

“Ezekiel,” Jerome says, snapping him from his thoughts. “E~ze~kiel~”

Zeke shuts his eyes and swallows, desperately trying to go to a happier place than here, standing in the middle of the room like a good toy soldier, while Jerome circles him.

“Isn’t that how she would say your name?” he asks. “So sweetly? It would be a right shame if you were never to hear her call for you again.”

“Please,” Zeke says quietly. “No.”

“I’ll ask once more,” Jerome warns. “Where is the food?”

Ezekiel is not a religious man, but as he glances to the corner of the room, he prays to the Mother and Father for his lie to come through. “I’m told that the transport was raided by bandits while the soldier slept last night. He woke up and it was all gone.”

Jerome’s sly smirk slams down into a scowl. He stops circling and lashes out again, fisting Zeke’s coat in his hands as he yanks him down to his height. His breath smells like bitter ale, a brew that Zeke knows the base doesn’t stock; it is a testament to his theft. He recoils slightly from Jerome, but his superior shakes him and makes him look at him.

“Don’t lie! I know you had something to do with this. Your horse was saddled early this morning, and a guard saw you two slipping out before dawn.”

Zeke frowns, heart hammering, and says, “Well, I took Ephraim out for a run. We don’t see as much action as normal, since you keep me in here; the poor boy needed to get some energy out.”

Jerome is snarling, but clearly cannot deny that what Ezekiel says is true. A horse needs to stretch his legs, and to let him exercise before the day’s work is the most logical thing.

“You want me to think it’s coincidence?” he asks. “That you slip out so early right before my food is taken? What did you do with it?”

Zeke glances away again. “You think I’d risk Tatiana to merely spite you? Sir, I didn’t believe you to be such a fool.”

With a frown, Jerome releases him. Zeke straightens back up, smoothing down the creases in his coat, and then puts his hands back behind his back. He hopes the lie has worked, because one little slip up, and Tatiana is gone forever.

“I know you did it,” he murmurs, scratching his mustache. “I know bleeding hearts like you.”

“If you have concrete evidence, sir, show it to me,” he invites. “But I assure you, I would do nothing, ever, that would put Tatiana at risk.”

He’s lying through his teeth. He’s done plenty of things that have put Tatiana at risk. All of them, however, have been things Zeke knows that she would want him to do. Protect the helpless, feed the hungry, turn his attentions to the needy. All things that she would want him to do, because he couldn’t bear the disappointed look in her eyes if she were to come home and find that he threw all his morals away just for her.

Jerome clicks his tongue sharply, shoves Zeke backwards slightly, and makes for the door. “I’ll let it slip this time, because I can’t prove it,” he says, “but don’t think your sweetheart will be safe the next time I catch something like this.”

The door slams shut. Zeke deflates, gasping and clutching his chest as he fights a panic attack. His knees feel weak, and slowly, he wobbles back to his desk. He tells himself, over and over, that he’s gotten away with it this time, that the people are fed and Tatiana is safe—as safe as the darling can be when she’s in that witch’s grasp.

He eases back in his chair, exhaling, and drags his hands through his hair. It’s longer than he likes, he notices, but doesn’t pay that much mind. He focuses on wondering how he got into this mess, how he, a soldier of renowned capability, has become a lapdog and pawn to such a vile man. He wonders how Tatiana, who wanted nothing but peace and quiet and to look away from the war whenever she could, wound up a gambling chip in a cruel game.

Tatiana.

Zeke opens his eyes and looks at the portrait. It smiles back at him, kind as always, and he wonders if she looks different now. It’s only been a little over a month, but a lot can change in that time. Nuibaba might be starving her, and she might have dropped all of her cute weight. She might be paler after sitting in what he assumes to be a windowless dungeon. Her eyes might have lost their brightness. She might not be smiling.

He leans forward and picks up the frame. There isn’t a speck of dust on it; not with how much he picks it up and polishes it. He gives it more care and attention than he gives himself. It’s the only company he has, the only thing that keeps him from going mad with self-blame and fear. It’s the only thing he has. The only thing.

He holds the painting tight and bends his head down, lightly resting his forehead against the frame. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, still beating down the seemingly constant panic in his chest. Zeke tries so hard to bring to mind the scent of her favorite perfume, the feel of her hair when he runs his fingers through it early in the mornings, the sound of her voice as she excitedly talks about her day over dinner.

He tries. He tries so hard. But it’s all slipping.

Gripping the frame tighter, he lifts his head and stares at the painting. “No pouting,” he mutters, straightening up. “It’s all going to be fine. I’m going to make it fine.”

The painting doesn’t respond to him. He keeps staring down at it, unable to tear his eyes away from every beautiful detail of her face. With quivering fingers, Zeke dares to touch the image.

“Tatiana, darling,” he breathes, once more shutting his eyes and lowering his head. “How could I do this to you?”

**Author's Note:**

> my friend Sam drew [this small comic](http://sam-ado.tumblr.com/post/169598499422/witchnyx-a-portrait-of-tatiana-next-to-his-heart) of Sirius taking her portrait with him to Archanea we're all emo in this house


End file.
